As the world of Lumiere literally fell apart from its roots, Verso was struck by a sense of sadness. There was a bitter irony in it; he had spent a lifetime lamenting his immortality as a straight-up curse, a burden he couldn't wait to shed.

  Yet, as his body began to crumble into a whirlwind of rose petals, the "curse" suddenly felt like a luxury he wasn't ready to lose. He felt a frantic rush of panic and regret. It turned out that even the crappy memories were precious when you realized every moment that made him who he was was about to vanish for good.

  Before he could even process the absurdity of his own fear, the darkness took over. His last thought was a dry acceptance: Okay, this is finally it.

  So when Verso woke up on a slab of warm concrete under a harsh sun, he was more than just confused. Wait, what the hell? Was this supposed to be the afterlife? A purgatory designed to be as loud and uncomfortable as possible?

  The irony only deepened as he tried to find his bearings. He wasn't even human; he was just a fake NPC from some painted fantasy world, a reality that felt a lifetime away.

  But where the hell was he? People in heavy boots walked right past him like he was invisible. Nobody gave him a second look. In Lumiere, people would’ve rushed over to check on him, but this place was different—colder. No one stopped. No one bothered to ask if he was okay.

  Verso sat up slowly, his blood-stained clothes and smudged face drawing nothing but irritated glances from the passersby. Everyone here was dressed in something... sterile? Or perhaps just strange.

  Most wore simple suits or those rugged blue pants that didn't look like cotton or leather. What exactly were they? His keen eyes caught the word "jeans" on a label, but he had no idea what that was supposed to mean.

  Everything felt remarkably clean and tidy. There were exceptions, of course, but even they seemed to embrace a sense of deliberate chaos—gold chains clinking, baggy pants, and simple metal objects dangling from their waists. Was that a gun?

  It had a resemblance to Gustave's weapons... but it didn't matter now. Verso needed to understand what was happening and where exactly he had ended up.

  He rose to his feet on his own, his joints stiff and protesting with a dull ache, as if the concrete was offended by his very existence. Predictably, no one offered a hand.

  It was a spectacle, really—a man in exotic, blooded attire appearing literally out of thin air in the middle of a crowd—and yet, not a single person spared him a glance.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Verso sighed. This had to be another broken world. Whatever this place was, it felt like yet another trial carefully curated for his endurance. Seriously, had the universe not met its quota of suffering for him yet?

  He stretched his heavy legs, took a moment to survey the gray horizon, and started walking. If there was one advantage to his immortality, it was the fact that he could survive without food, water, or shelter. His body would simply regenerate, stubbornly refusing to let him die.

  But here was the delicious catch: he still felt every agonizing human urge. Thirst, hunger, and bone-deep exhaustion were his constant, uninvited companions. It was, quite honestly, a nightmare with no wake-up call.

  Back in Lumiere, his presence would have triggered a minor uprising. People would have swarmed him like flies, searching his face for a glimmer of hope or scanning the shadows for a sign of the Paintress’s minions. He was a symbol, a beacon, a target.

  But here, he was nothing. Nobody cared. To his genuine surprise, the indifference was… refreshing. He had been the center of too much attention from the very moment he was "born." If you could even call that messy beginning a "birth."

  As he strolled down the street, the sheer sensory overload was almost too much to handle. He’d lived for a whole century and thought he’d seen every trick in the book, but this was on a whole different level.

  The buildings were ridiculously tall, and half of them were made entirely of glass. How did they even stay up? Renoir was a genius architect, sure, but even he couldn't have dreamed up these massive blocks. Honestly, though, they were a bit of an eyesore—zero aesthetic, just giant glass boxes.

  There were stores everywhere, packed with more stuff than he could count. Back home, he’d lived in Angelique’s Boulangerie and thought it was the peak of bakery culture, but here? There was a bakery on every single corner. This place had to be insanely wealthy for some reason. The city was just too big, too wide, and there were just... so many people.

  Seriously, way too many people. The thought of having to deal with this many crowds at once was already giving him a headache. And then he spotted something truly weird: old people.

  It had been forever since he’d seen anyone with gray hair, except for Renoir and his family. But here, people of all ages were just wandering around like getting old was the most normal thing ever.

  Was he actually outside the Canvas? Was he finally out? If that was true, did it mean everyone who had vanished from Lumiere was hiding somewhere in this crowd? He wasn't so sure.

  Wait—could this be Maelle’s work? She was a Paintress now, and she did have the power to cook up a world....

  No way. Even if Verso wasn't a Painter himself, he knew the basics. Maelle couldn't have pulled this off with her beginner skills. At best, she could paint a dozen people and just hit 'copy-paste' until she ran out of ink.

  This was way out of her league. Honestly, even someone like Clea couldn't have managed a masterpiece this massive.

  His body wasn’t physically tired, but he felt utterly drained. He slumped onto a bench near a small, modest park.

  A few passersby caught glimpses of his exquisite attire. His fur-lined coat with its Belle époque cuts and sleeves, decorated with beautiful runes now smudged with blood and grime.

  They looked ridiculous in this setting. His leather boots felt like small ovens in the heat, and his unruly hair and beard were matted with dried blood.

  Finally, someone gave him some attention, though it wasn't the warm, fuzzy kind he was used to back in Lumiere or the continent.

  "Sir, are you alright?"